Light at the End of the Tunnel
by shirleypositive72
Summary: Dean and Jane wake up in a world overrun with the Croatoan virus. Fighting both the future and the past, their greatest battle is against themselves. An OC's view of episode 5x04, The End. Part 4 in the Jane Downey series.
1. It Never Ends

**A/N: Part 4 in the Jane Downey series. This time, it's The End. Go check out Parts 1-3, That Picture (T), A Normal Day (M), and While They Dance on a Pin (T).**

"Jay, you can't still be mad."

"A whorehouse, Dean."

"I know, I know. But we weren't there for _me,_" he explains again, his pleading tone quickly becoming annoyed, his fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter.

"Did you wait in the car while you sent the angel into the whorehouse?"

"What? No! Jane, you know, I didn't touch one single hooker."

And that one sentence, said so earnestly, is just so very ludicrous that I have to laugh. The whole days-long argument, just over. He laughs, too. More in relief than humor, but he laughs. That's an occurrence that is getting to be more common these days. I love to hear it. It's just the two of us, and he hides the melancholy well.

Parting ways with Sammy was not an easy choice. And, frankly, it wasn't a decision I backed. I was so worried for them both. And selfish, too. I like having them both with me. But it was ultimately a good decision for them, I think. Dean needed this break from the constant worry for Sam, every minute spent trying not to judge his brother. They've never really mended their relationship since we found out about Sam's reliance on Ruby. Since we found out about the demon blood. I guess my relationship with Sam pretty much sucks, too. We tried to just deal with it. So hard. Dean harder than me, of course. He has always been as much father as brother to Sammy. But it was wearing him down.

So much has been wearing us down.

From the moment Dean discovered that his actions in Hell became the first step in the march toward Apocalypse, he has felt the fate of the world on his shoulders, more literally than ever before. His resolve to continue the fight, to keep hunting, is stronger than ever. Unfortunately, this truth was driven home to all three of us by a stunt pulled by Zachariah, a superior of Castiel's, right after the night with Alastair. The whole charade was designed to show Dean that his turmoil over his time in Hell, his questioning of his role in the new apocalyptic reality, was pointless. Thrown into corporate, nine-to-five lives, we came out the other end of our three week trip to the land of make believe with the understanding that given the choice, we would still pick our lives. We remember it all. It wasn't horrible; the stability, the material possessions, the routine were nice places to visit, so to speak. But the only thing that I wish I still had was the ring on my finger. We've never talked about that little detail, Dean and I; but for three weeks, we were married.

The situation wasn't made any better by the discovery that our lives are apparently just shitty fiction. Or shitty fanfiction, depending on what you're reading. I thought it was all as funny as hell until we discovered that Carver Edlund, better known as Chuck Shurley, was really a prophet and tied up in this apocalypse mess. Cas thought it a great honor to meet him, and Dean wanted to bust his face for writing our sex scenes so vividly. But mostly, we spent our time with Chuck trying to keep Sam away from Lilith. My boys argued about how to deal with the prophecy, and Dean had to rescue Sam. Again.

Finding out they had a brother, well, that shook them a bit. Dean, especially, had a hard time wading through his lingering case of hero worship for John, and the resultant jealousy and protectiveness he felt for another little brother. The boys fought over how to deal with Adam, what to tell him, how far into our world we were going to let him go. In the end, it didn't really make a difference. Adam, the real Adam, the one who was their brother, had been killed by the monster wearing his face. Dean killed it while saving Sam. Again.

We met Castiel's vessel, Jimmy Novak. Sadly, Jimmy got very little time with the family he left behind before Castiel took him back, before Jimmy offered himself to him again. Our angel made it back just in time to witness our horror as Dean and I watched Sam drink the blood of a demon. Our Sammy. The rift between the brothers became a gaping chasm as Dean, Bobby, and I made the decision to lock Sam up for detox. I don't honestly know if this is something I will ever get over. I know Dean hasn't. Not really. But by putting his brother behind that locked door in Bobby's panic room, Dean saved him. Again.

But still Sam would not listen. Still Sam made all the wrong choices. He chose a demon over his brother and his best friend and started the Apocalypse. He chose Ruby. He drank enough blood to become stronger than he ever had. He killed Lilith. He began the end. And when Lucifer rose because of the blood that he'd spilled, Dean tried to save him. Again. This time, though, someone else had their backs. And to be honest, we don't have a clue who plucked them away from danger and put them somewhere else. Cas thinks he knows. I pray he's right.

A lot has happened in the days since then. Bobby was possessed. That tough as nails old man somehow regained control and stabbed himself to keep from stabbing Dean. He's paralyzed now. I tried to stay home and take care of him, but he won't allow it. So I'm on the road. Meg came back. Lucifer is seeking a vessel; he is, after all, an angel. Sam picked up a superfan who has no concept of personal space. Cas exploded all over Chuck, and was brought back to life. Sam, Dean, and I had Enochian sigils flash-carved onto our ribs, making us invisible on the angel version of the Marauders' Map. And Dean has learned he is the Michael Sword, or Michael's vessel. It is not a job I'm ready for him to take on. If Michael takes him over, he won't come back. Ever. And that is not okay with me.

We got a call from Uncle Rufus and went to Colorado. I thought Jo was a demon for few minutes and beat her ass. I have to admit that even after we realized it was the effects of the Horseman War, I didn't have it in me to regret it. That had been brewing for a while. The look on her face when Dean walked in the door of the house we were holed up in convinced me that she needed a reminder of exactly what I'm capable of. War was defeated, Aunt Ellen got a promise of better communication, and my boys argued.

Sam felt he couldn't trust himself on the hunt. The desire for a fix was just too strong. It was his idea to leave our little band of misfits. Dean agreed and let him go. He was so tired of worrying about him. That was something I never thought I'd see.

Dean gave me an out as we watched Sammy hitch a ride and drive away. He offered to take me to Bobby's, to convince my ornery uncle to let me stay home. He tried to get me out of harm's way. I knew that was what he was doing. He knew I knew it. Without Sammy around, he felt I was less protected. It didn't matter why. I'm never going to leave him. Never. I don't know what's more important to him right now: the fact that Sam left or the fact that I stayed. He could never really have thought I'd leave him, I suppose, but he doubts so many things these days. And then again, I never could have believed he would let Sam go without a fight until I saw it happen.

He's spent the past weeks trying to be a simple man, with simple goals in his complicated world. There have been moments of incredible closeness between the two of us, and more time spent together since, well, ever. He's been lighthearted and quick to laughter in a way I haven't seen in years. But there is a guilt seated so firmly and deeply within him that I have no hope of touching it. He has missed his brother, but not as much as he thinks he should. He doesn't feel badly for having let Sam go, and that's where the guilt comes from; he feels guilty for not feeling guilty. How do I fix that?

I've missed Sam, too, the man I used to know so well. I've missed him for a long time. I'm not sad about his absence, though. The time away from Sam has been good for us, despite Dean's misguided and hilariously unsuccessful efforts at getting Cas laid. I just hope that Sammy is finding a little rest, too.

."You about ready to stop for the night? I don't think I can drive all the way through Kansas City tonight,"Dean asks as our laughter quiets.

"Yeah, baby. A bed sounds amazing."

"Yes, it does," he growls. Oh, what that growl does to me.

He pulls the Impala up in front of a truly horrible motel on a busy city street. I don't even care. I'm just ready to get out of this car. It's been a long drive.

"Excuse me, friend, but have you taken time out to think about God's plan for you?" asks a sidewalk evangelist, his face earnest.

"Too friggin' much, pal," Dean replies. He throws his arm around my shoulders and leads me inside.

No sooner than we get in the room and dump the duffels, Dean's phone rings. I flop on the bed and start to take off my nasty road clothes. It's Cas, of course. The talk turns to the Colt. We seem to never be rid of that damn thing. Cas apparently feels it would be a useful weapon against the Devil. I think Dean needs to get the hell off the phone. I toss my t-shirt at him to drive that point home.

"Kansas City," Dean tells him. Walking over to the bed and leaning over me to grab the room key, he gets the rest of the address. "Century Hotel, room 113."

He tosses the key back on the table, shifts his phone, and kisses my belly, that look in his eyes. I love that look. Whatever Cas says next prompts him to stand back up.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. No, no, come on, man. I just drove like sixteen hours straight, okay? I'm human," he snaps in exasperation. He cuts his eyes back to me and smirks, "And there's stuff I got to do." He rolls his eyes and responds to another question. "Eat, for example, or sleep. In this case, sex. We just need like four hours once in a while, okay?"

I throw my bra at him in agreement.

"Okay, so, you can pop in tomorrow morning," my man confirms, hopping on the bed beside me. "He says he'll just wait there."

And though he makes me feel so good, and I do the same for him, we know the time together is stolen. As we fall asleep for a few hours in each other's arms, we know that a new hunt begins tomorrow. It never ends. It just never ends.

**A/N: Just a recap. There was a lot of time between this story and While They Dance on a Pin. Thank you so much to any repeat readers. And welcome to any new ones! Please be so kind as to leave a review. Reviews = Love. Who doesn't want to be loved? **


	2. Stronger in the End

I think I hear the phone before he does. That is both unusual and unsurprising. He's so tired. And not only because of the sixteen hour drive. Just because Sammy is off somewhere on his own, it doesn't mean the hunting has slowed down. We've found our share of monsters to keep us busy. The bitey kind. Vamps are not easy to put down, and they are generally the most difficult for me. On vampire hunts, Dean has his hands full not just with the non-sparkling Twilight rejects, but with me and my emotional and vengeance-filled baggage. We all have our entry story, that one thing that brought us into this life. Mine begins with an obsessed vampire and ends with dead parents.

Dean hates witches; he thinks they're skeevy. He pursues them with a need to get the hunt over with because he just can't stand dealing with them. Demons have become the particular mission in life for both him and Sam. But for me, vampires will always be the ultimate kill. Every one of them has to die. Every one. They all have to pay for the crimes of that _one_, that _one_ that took everything I knew. And they have to pay hard, and bloody, and at my hands. Uncle Bobby never sends me on vamp cases. Dean never wants to take me. But when I'm on the road with him, sometimes it can't be helped.

The last case was hard on me and my man. I fell into the rage the sight of fangs always takes me to, and Dean had to watch until I was done. He didn't stop me. He never stops me. He says I have just as much right to my anger as he has to his. It doesn't stop him from worrying for me. Add to that the rain-soaked sixteen hour drive and our enthusiastic bedtime activities, and he can be forgiven for taking more than a full second to hear his phone vibrate. His reflexes are still quicker, though, and he has the phone to his ear before I can even reach for it.

"Damn it, Cas, I need to sleep!"

I can't help but crack an exhausted smile. He just doesn't get it, and that's so Cas. The angel and I have formed something of a cautious understanding over the past few months. I don't really see him as the threat I once did. Dean's trust in him is growing, and I trust Dean's judgment. Dean genuinely likes him. "Friendship" might still be too strong a word for me and Castiel, but I think we're getting there. Cas has helped us out of a tight spot or two. He makes me laugh, and I can't really blame _him_ for the whorehouse. The chuckle bubbling to the surface dies in my throat at Dean's next words.

"Sam? It's quarter past four."

There must be a reason for Sammy to be calling, and nothing good has ever come from a conversation at quarter past four. I roll over to face my side of the bed and pull my sleepy ass upright. Time to shower and get dressed. No telling what action this call will require. When my feet hit the floor, I realize that we both fell asleep nude. Under normal circumstances, for normal people, in normal places, that would not be a problem. But nothing about us is normal. Naked wouldn't equal dead, necessarily, but it might be uncomfortable if we suddenly had to deal with claws. It would equal embarrassing if we had to run in a hurry. Tends to attract a lot of attention, too. That's not ever our goal, really. We're getting complacent, and complacency definitely equals dead.

I glance over to where Dean is cradling the phone to his ear while pulling his jeans up over his boxer briefs. Once I pull my gaze away from his body and meet his eyes, his smirk at catching me looking disappears. His rueful expression tells me he, too, understands our mistake. It was nice while it lasted, that easy intimacy, that comfortable normalcy, but it's time to get back to reality. Sam calling is a reminder for both of us.

I grab a change of clothes from my bag and get the hot water started. I hesitate to close the door all the way, but decide, as I usually do, to give the boys their privacy. Some things between them are just between them. The shower is surprisingly great for a place like this, and I take as much time as I dare. Either we will need to go quickly, or Dean will want to get a shower of his own. He'll be up for a while after a chat with his brother. Getting dressed and wrapping my wet hair in a towel, I walk back into the room. Dean will let me know if he needs more time alone.

He's sitting in a chair with a beer, a weary look on his face. He waves me over and shifts so I can sit on his knee.

"So, you're his vessel, huh? Lucifer's wearing you to the prom?" And now I know why he needs me close. Or maybe he knew I'd need him. "Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in, huh, Sammy?"

I pull the towel off my hair and lean into his chest, my head resting as close to the phone as I can get, dampening his shirt. I want to hear. I need to know.

"_So, that's it? That's your response?" _Sam asks incredulously.

"What are you looking for?" is Dean's exasperated reply.

"_I don't know. A, a little panic? Maybe?"_

"I guess I'm a little numb to the earth-shattering revelations at this point," Dean sighs.

Sam wants back in. He wants to come back, travel with us, hunt with us. The very thing that just weeks ago, he said he could not trust himself to do. Dean is worried that with revenge as his motive, this will get messy. I think Sam is looking for redemption. I'm not sure that makes a difference. Neither is Dean.

"Look, Sam, it doesn't matter, whatever we do. I mean, it turns out that you and me, we're the, uh, the fire and the oil of the Armageddon. You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good." I know how hard that was for him. I hold him tighter, and he lets me.

"_Dean, it does not have to be like this. We can fight it." _Sam is pleading, begging, and I wish i could comfort him, too.

"Yeah, you're right. We can. But not together. Not me and you. We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. Because whatever we have between us - love, family, whatever it is - they are always gonna use it against us. And you know that. Yeah, we're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing, if we just go our own ways."

"_Is Jane still there? Dean, I can help, too, just like she can. She's a weak spot. Won't they use her against you?"_

"She makes me stronger," he says, leaning his head against mine. It's that simple to him. He's never said anything, ever, that has meant more to me.

"_Please."_

"Bye, Sam." And he downs his beer, hangs his head, and is silent. I pull up my legs and curl into him.

All the light we regained in our dark world has dimmed so quickly. It's like we were playing in the sun and now it's raining. Dean feels it. Once again he is laid low, pieces of him bending so far that I'm waiting to hear the snap. One phone call has brought him back not only to the harshness of our reality, but heaped upon him another round of the heavy and hard decisions he never seems to be able to escape. One phone call, and we're both living life in grayscale.

It's easy at this moment not to miss Sam at all.

**A/N: Leave a review. Reviews are nice.**


	3. How It Will End

Chapter 3: It Has to End

Dean tightens his arms around my middle and I snuggle deeper into his chest. He's so warm, and it's so cold in here. Strange, because it was just fine when we finally fell asleep again. I scoot just a bit to get even closer as he does the same. We are both still, both suddenly aware at the same time that something is not quite right. I open my eyes to a too bright room. Too bright because the curtains should be blocking the morning sun. They're not.

"What the hell?" I hear Dean say in shock. He sits up, pulling me along. "Where's the mattress?"

No mattress. No curtains. No covers. No sign that this is the room in which we fell asleep aside from the arrangement. The run-down, dusty, cobwebby furniture is all in the same position as when we collapsed in the dark, early hours. The peeling paint is new, though.

"Dean? What's going on?" I don't know why I'm asking him that. It's obvious he has no more idea than I do. I'm just so used to looking to him for the answers in these kinds of situations. He cuts his eyes at me, silently acknowledging the dumb question, then begins to lift himself off of the bed springs.

We slept heavily after that phone call. I know I did, and Dean's puffy eyes make me think I'm right about him, too. We were just so . . . worn out? Worn out by the conversation. Dean was crushed at having to tell Sam no; it's not something he's ever been really good at. I felt the weight of guilt because I was happy he did. Selfish, I know. So selfish. But things have been better without him. I hate myself for that truth. We sat in that chair together for twenty minutes. Light kisses, quiet reassurances, just the closeness helping a little. Smoothing his hair one last time, I crawled out of his lap and led him to bed.

And we wake up to this clusterfuck. Not exactly what we were anticipating.

He reaches a hand back to me when he finally frees himself from the medieval torture device that our bed has become and helps me up. Putting my feet on the warped and splintered wood of the floor, it hits me that instead of being carelessly nude, we are both completely dressed. Boots, jackets, weapons, everything. We did NOT go to bed that way. Watching Dean reach into his waistband to check his gun, I know we are on the same wavelength.

"What the fuck, Jay?" It's my turn to give him the stupid question look.

"I don't know. I don't like it."

"Yeah, me neither."

We start looking around, hoping to find some clue as to just what exactly is going on here. There is no good explanation. At least, no solution presents itself under the bed or in the bathroom. Nothing in our bags, either, since they seem to have disappeared. I'm not quite ready to open the door. All I have, it seems, are the things I always have on me: my gun, my knife, my lockpick, my bobby pin, and my phone. I dial Bobby with my fingers crossed.

"What the hell?" Dean begins to dial Sammy, I'm sure, then is standing in the window, a sudden look of complete disbelief on his face, phone forgotten. It takes a lot to surprise my man, even more to shock him. This room set him on edge, but this is the first time he's looked like that since we got up. Whatever he sees right now has him stunned, and I'm not sure I want to see it. He turns back to face me, beckons me to the window, and eyes the phone in my hand. "That thing working?"

"No," I answer, slowly going to his side.

"I'm not surprised."

Finally getting a glimpse of the world beyond this room, I understand why.

Devastation. Total annihilation of the cityscape. It's like a scene from a zombie movie. Garbage piled in the street, fires in the near distance, buildings in decay, nobody walking around, but no bodies on the ground, either. Small blessings, I guess.

"Oh, my God."

"I don't think this was Him, babe," Dean says, encircling my shoulders from behind. I didn't realize how much I need his comfort until I feel him against my back.

"Can you call Castiel down here?"

"I'll try, but maybe you should give it a shot. I'm sure he'd fly right in."

"Dean? Jealous of the angel?" Now it's my turn to be shocked. Maybe not the most appropriate time, but still, he's the one who wanted us to get along! Men.

"No," he grunts aggessively, which, of course, means yes.

"Don't be. Not of him. Not of anyone who isn't you. Not ever. Got it?"

"Okay. Look around one more time, gather any of our stuff that you can find. I'm gonna 911 Cas and then we're outta here.

My search turns up exactly what we thought it would. Nothing. We have only what's on our backs. Not really heading into this latest unknown situation completely prepared, but we'll make it work. We always do.

"No luck?"

"No. Cas is not picking up. It's just us."

"We can handle it."

"Time to head out, then. Don't wander off."

"What, are you suddenly the Doctor?"

"You are really not as funny as you think you are."

"You're just jealous because I'm funnier than you."

"Jay, " he begins, taking me in his arms, making me feel small and protected. "This is making me a little nervous. Just stick close to me, okay? We get through this together. Same as always."

"Together," I promise, tilting my head to look up into the face I love so much.

It's worse once we get outside. From our window above, it almost looked calm. Down here, on street level, it is chaos. Cars covered in ash, windows blown out by the force of the fires that torched them. Paper everywhere, garbage, glass. There are carts and crates and wire and fence, telling the story that whatever happened here did not happen uncontested. Everything wears the air of abandonment and decay.

We push farther into the city center, and the graffiti becomes more frenzied, more voices left behind in splashes of paint. _Dogs of Peace_ and _HEDZ DED _appearing more than once.

"What happened here?" I whisper into the still, heavy silence.

"Oh, babe, I don't know." He slows his walk to a stand still, and I meet him, grabbing his hand. "Whatever it was, this is the aftermath, not the battle."

"Dean, over there." I point down the alley to our left. Movement. Is it? It's a -

"It's a kid!" he exclaims

"Little girl," he says soothingly as he approaches the dirty, rag-clothed child. He is so great with kids. Another dream this life makes impossible. "Are you hurt?"

No, she's not hurt. She's fucking crazy, murderously insane and stabby, but she's not hurt. Dean jumps back with reflexes he usually only has to use in the face of the monsters in whose company we often find ourselves. I step into the space he leaves and cold cock the little killer. I don't get there before she cuts Dean with a broken shard of mirror. She was way too fast.

"You okay?" I ask, pulling on his jacket, checking the damage. I've never wanted to hurt a kid before.

"Oh, shit," he says.

"That bad? Dean, I don't see anything that bad." I run my fingers over the bloody spot on his t-shirt.

"No, no, not me. That," and he points to the wall at the end of the alley.

_CROATOAN_

"Oh, shit," I breathe.

The red paint used to leave the word as a warning ran like blood before it dried. It's fitting, because the word means death. It mean viciousness and fear and death. It means people at their most feral and bloodthirsty. It means we better run.

A little less than three years ago found my gang of three in Oregon, chasing one of Sammy's visions. We had no idea what we were walking into. We walked into a nightmare. A demonic virus, laced with sulfur even at the microscopic level, had overtaken a small town. Its effect was simple, nothing fancy. Get the virus, become a crazed murderer. No one was safe. I almost lost both my boys in that town that sanity forgot. And then it was gone. Just vanished, even in the petri dishes. Gone.

Until today.

I don't know if the crowd, the mob, the herd of Croatoan-infected people coming around the corner heard us, or smelled us, or if our luck is just that bad. Doesn't really matter. They know we're here now.

"RUN!" Dean yells, and we take off. Down alleys, up the main street, around corners, just barely keeping ahead of the rabid but fast infected people behind us. Dean never stops; he slows to let me catch up, but not often. I'm not slow and I keep up pretty well. We run and run and run until a fence gets in our way. Before we can even grab the first link to haul ourselves into a climb, a new arrival stops our plans.

Machine guns, a tank, and a Motown song. Our pursuers are mown down with the beat. It's little comfort, however, because the guys firing the machine guns are shooting in our direction, too. And enjoying it a bit too much if the soundtrack is any indication. We run again. I turn down a smaller alleyway, Dean hot on my heels, and we hunker down for a while. Running and hiding is not our usual style, and I'm already over it. Fear is turning to frustration. We need to get a handle on this.

"We need to get to Bobby's," I whisper, not wanting to attract the attention of anyone we've encountered this morning. I don't want to run anymore.

"I agree. Give it a few, and I'll go look for a car that might still be running."

"I'm going, too."

"Jay, stay here and I'll be back."

"You really think that would work?" I ask, eyebrow raised to maximum sarcasm.

"Hell, no, but I thought it was worth a shot. I just want you safe."

"Dean, we're not safe anywhere. I'm coming with."

Waiting until nightfall, we finally move, finding a high fence with just enough of a gap for Dean to get through. Good thing; the top is barbed wire. There's sufficient light from the moon to read the sign attached to it.

"_Croatoan virus hot zone. No entry by order of acting regional command," _I read outloud.

"That says August 2014. Why does that say August 2014?"

"We were in a quarantine zone. Quarantine, Dean!" I start looking at my hands and my clothes, moving fabric to look at the skin underneath. "Quarantine!"

"Hey, hey, hey, now, calm down. Remember how it spreads? Remember? Body fluids, Jay. Jane, we don't have it." He pulls me to him and spends time we don't have comforting my panic. How I wish I could get this under control. So many insecurities, I am afraid I will never completely regain the strength I once had. Seems so long ago now, when I was so confident in being able to take care of myself. Sometimes I see it. Sometimes I even think I can take care of Dean. But right now, I'm freaking out.

We don't have to go far from the hot zone to find a car. I keep a lookout while he hot wires it, and we take off in the direction of Bobby's house. It's a long drive, Missouri to South Dakota, and we're just hoping to be able to get gas along the way. Guess we'll be siphoning, if we find enough cars. There's nothing on the roads. The radio doesn't pick up anything but static. We're alone.

Well, that is, until Zachariah pops up inside the car, reading horrific headlines from a paper like he belongs in our backseat. He confirms our suspicions. Croatoan destroys the future.

"How did you find us? You're not supposed to be able to find us," I ask with more conviction than I feel.

Barely sparing me a glance in the rear view mirror, he replies, "Afraid we had to tap some unorthodox resources of late. Human informants. We've been making inspirational visits to the fringier Christian groups. They've been given your image, told to keep an eye out."

"The Bible freak outside the motel. He, what, dropped a dime on us?"

" He recognized Jane. Seems her face stuck in his mind," he admits with a derisive snort. "Onward, Christian soldiers."

"Okay, well, good, great. You have had your jollies. Now send us back, you son of a bitch."

"Oh, you'll get back. All in good time. We want you to marinate a bit."

"Marinate?" I ask. I don't like the sound of that.

"Three days. That's all. Three days to see where this course of action takes you, Dean."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean glances at me. We both know exactly what the angel is talking about.

"It means that your choices have consequences. This is what happens to the world if you continue to say "no" to Michael. Have a little look-see. See what happens to you, and to Sam. And to Jane."

With one more look at me in the mirror, Zachariah vanishes as quickly as he appeared.

"Get me to Bobby, Dean," I whisper.

He grips my hand tightly and steps on the gas.

**A/N: Meh.**


	4. A Lonely End

**A/N: Don't own Supernatural.**

To be completely honest, it is almost impossible to tell from the outside that anything is wrong. Same old overgrown, worn-down, dilapidated house that has been my home for most of my life. Same driveway where Bobby's old truck used to sit. Same creaky front porch under which our dog Rumsfeld used to lie. Same front yard we could never mow because of the half buried car parts. The only thing really out of place is the open door. He would never leave it open. Even with all of the sigils and wardings, he would never leave it open.

Dean pulls up to the only real home we've ever had and I am out of the car before he can fully stop it. Boots crunching through gravel and leaves and garbage, I hit the steps at a dead run.

"Jane, damn it, STOP!" I don't know he's behind me until I feel his arms around my waist. That fact, much more than his yelling, drives home that I'm not really thinking about this. My head's not in the game right this second.

"Bobby," I sob. Because I already know.

"We don't know anything yet. Nothing. Calm down. We might not be alone, Jay. You know better." He's pissed, he's worried, he's struggling to keep it together.

"Head in the game," I tell him, breathing deeply, fooling neither of us.

He takes his gun out, as I do mine, and pushes the open door. It creaks more than usual. It doesn't swing easily, though. Too much debris scattered behind it. Forgetting how mad he is at losing the element of surprise, he calls out.

"Bobby?"

"Uncle Bobby!" I shout trying so damn hard to get into the house. Dean is still not letting me in.

"Cut that shit out _right now_, Jane. So help me, I will cuff you in the damn car. We're going in, but we do it smart. Keep your eyes open. Get a grip on the panic." I shut my mouth, stand up straight, stop pushing against his back, stop trying to push my way around him. I stop pushing _him._

This is Dean the Leader now. He's unquestionably in charge on any hunt. He's earned it. Bobby has an understanding of the supernatural that nearly matches that of his library, Sam is smarter than anyone I've ever known, and I'm pretty damn good at interpreting languages and spotting behavioral patterns. Dean is simply the best Hunter there has ever been. His instincts are nearly always right, even if his heart sometimes stops him from following them. He sees things we don't, instantly understands the best strategy for a given situation. Not to say he's infallible - he fucks up his fair share - but he is without question the one who directs this show.

Right now I'm not with the program. He does not ever tolerate this. It's not about him loving me, or respecting me. It's about us staying alive. Out here, in the world we move in, survival is above all else. Hurt feelings and anger can be dealt with later. But first there has to be a later. Dean takes on the job of making sure that happens, and he takes it very seriously.

He leads me slowly into the foyer, a space that has never been tidy even on the best of days, but is now truly in disarray. It isn't long before Dean stops, blocking my view just because of his size. He is stock still, and I no longer care to see what's in front of us.

"Oh, God," he says reaching behind himself to take my hand. He just instinctively knows where it will be.

But I don't want his hand right now. I don't want his comfort or his anger or his leadership or any of it. I don't want it.

I want Bobby.

I step to the right of him, and this time he doesn't even attempt to stop me. This time he just lets me see what I know he wants to protect me from.

A wheelchair pierced by bullets. So many, many bullets. In the midst of this chaotic mess between the kitchen and the library, knocked over on its side and utterly destroyed, is the proof I didn't need to see to know the truth. I drop to my knees and turn it rightside up, knowing it won't change anything. I touch the holes and the dry, flaky blood that unnecessarily scream the already accepted fact.

He's dead.

Doesn't matter at all that this is the future, or that Zachariah sent us here, or that I haven't quite accepted we're in the real future and not just some dystopian construct straight out of the cruelty of the angel's mind. What matters is he's dead.

Uncle Bobby is dead and where the hell was I? Why the hell was the wheelchair-bound old man here by himself?

"Where were we?"

Dean approaches me so slowly, starts to bend when he gets close. "What? Babe, what are you-"

"Where the _fuck _were we?!" I scream, standing so fast I flip the chair back over. "He's dead. He's DEAD, and he was alone. No sign of us here, no Impala, no piece of shit loner out there we stole to get to him, no sign of _any_body else. He was _alone_, Dean. Where were _we_?"

"I don't know. Oh, Jane, I don't know, but we'll find out. I promise." His words are accompanied by a fierce hug, the kind I often crave, the kind that never fails to calm my every fear. But I'm not afraid. I'm pissed. I give him one squeeze then let go and walk away. I hear him grip the chair and whisper, "Where is everybody, Bobby?"

I know I'm being selfish in my anger. He's lost another father, too. But better the anger and selfishness than the grief that is rolling under my skin, threatening to break out. I can't do it. I can't be consumed by that kind of sadness. I don't think even Dean could reach that far down to rescue me again. So instead, I turn to the coping strategies laid out for me by a lifetime of examples from the men in my life.

Gone is the meek, unsure girl I've been for more than a year now. Gone is the pseudo-sophisticated woman I've been trying to be since my first year of college. All that is left at this moment of fury and heartache is the scrappy, battle-tested, smartass, hardheaded, tough kid raised by Bobby, John, and Rufus.

I slam the sliding door to the library and yell and throw shit around.

It's not enough that they took my mom and dad, I think as I knock over a case full of books that I used to study when Bobby was first teaching me Latin. It's not enough that they killed John, I fume with the crash of a lamp by which we used to read. It's not enough that they made me watch Dean die and be dragged away, I rage as I overturn a couch where we used to eat popcorn and watch crappy reality TV. None of that was quite enough.

Now the powers that darken a world that needs light so badly have taken the one who cares for us all. Me, Dean, Sam. But the Hunter community, too. His town, his unknowing friends, the ones who call him a drunk - he protected them all.

And he died alone.

I reach his desk and the storm of angry destruction dissipates. I can't break this. For all the wear and tear and dust and cobwebs, I can't break this. I lean against his desk and finally the tears come, and I wonder if I will ever run out.

"Jay," Dean says, voice cracking but trying so hard to be the level-headed one.

I know all he really wants to do is break the few things I've left whole in here. But he's going to try to put together his broken girlfriend instead. He comes up behind me again, towers over me in that protective way he has, a way that says I am untouchable, safe, and defended. This time I turn, wrap my arms around him, get on tiptoe and hang from his strong, broad shoulders like a child. He holds me, but only until the sobs have slowed. He wipes my tears away. We have work to do here.

In the diffused light streaming through the broken windows, we search the house, knowing that anything that might have been here is long gone. It doesn't appear that there has been anything or anyone here in a long time, though. There are still some clothes in our room; they're old and musty, but in one piece. We each pack a bag and meet back in the library. Dean removes a false front on the fire place and removes Bobby's journal. We both knew it would be there. It's further proof that he was in that chair when those holes were made.

A photo falls out. A line-up photo of Bobby, and me, and Cas with other people neither Dean nor I know, all armed, all standing in front of a sign.

We know where we have to go now.

******A/N: I felt like Jane was due for a complete meltdown. Losing Bobby would be the thing to do it. If you're reading, please let me know what you think!**


	5. At the End of the World

A/N: Don't own Supernatural.

I know the sound of his footsteps. I know the specific rhythm and cadence associated with his every mood. I know him wearing his trusty steel-toed shitkickers and in his stockinged feet. I'd know the sound of him anywhere, everywhere. You never know when something like that will come in handy, how important it might be to know who is coming around the corner. I recognize the sound of him right now.

But when I open my eyes, I see him not only walking across the wooden floor, but also next to me with one hand cuffed above his head, just out of reach.

I was able to calm myself after my breakdown in Bobby's library, and Dean and I had made our way from Sioux Falls to Camp Chitaqua with little problem. It hadn't been too long since the world stopped, and there were plenty of cars on the roads to steal. Waiting until after dark, we sneaked up to the barbed wire fences surrounding the camp. Baby, Dean's Baby, sat just within the beam from his flashlight, utterly abandoned. Broken glass, flat tires, mud everywhere. He was crestfallen. Then a blow to the back of the head. And I wake up to this.

"Jay? You alright?" The Dean next to me sounds really concerned, genuinely unnerved, and a bit groggy. And completely himself. This is bad.

"Yeah," I croak, rubbing the back of my head with my free hand. Seems I have a less than fashionable bracelet, as well. "What the hell-" I don't finish my question. I find it a bit hard to get the words out since I've just discovered I'm in Bizarro World. The one walking across the floor is totally Dean, too. I realize we're really in the future and I'm meeting Dean, Version 35.

"Jane, don't panic," Cuffed-Dean says, voice even in that get-your-shit-together way he has. "We're at Camp Chitaqua. We were sneaking in, remember? I, uh, guess I kind of got the drop on myself."

I look over at his smirk and say, "Last I remember, you were talking to your busted up car, Dean. Your attention was occupied."

"Yeah, she's Jane," Bizarro Dean concedes in a murmur I'm not sure we were supposed to hear.

"It bothers me that this doesn't actually seem all that weird to me. I guess you did all the tests?" I nod to the still-bleeding small cut on my forearm.

"I did," Future Man says. "Silver, salt, holy water. You're not any type of monsters I know. But you know what was funny?" he says, zeroing in on my Dean. "Was that you had every hidden lockpick, box cutter, and switchblade that I carry. Now, you want to explain that? Oh, and the, uh, resemblance, while you're at it."

"Zachariah. I'm you from the tail end of 2009. Zach plucked us out of bed and threw us five years into the future."

"Now that makes sense. Where is he? I want to talk to him."

"We dont know," I tell him.

"Oh, you dont know," Future Dean sneers

"No, we don't," my Dean snaps, then looks at me still rubbing my head. His eyes narrow when I pull back a bloody hand. "Who hit her? _I_ want to see _them_."

"Calm down. Focus," the man standing over us snaps. "Are you sure you can't reach Zachariah? You really don't know where he is?"

"No, I don't know. Look, I just want to get back to my own friggin' year, okay?" My Dean is losing his patience.

"If you're me, then tell me something only I would know," the older one challenges his younger self.

Dean thinks, then smirks. "Rhonda Hurley. We were, uh, nineteen. She made us try on her panties. They were pink. And satiny. And you know what? We kind of liked it."

"That explains so many of your requests, baby," I say with a sigh.

Old Dean grins. "Touche. So, what, Zach zapped you up here to see how bad it gets?"

"Croatoan? When?" I ask. I know what he'll say. I hope he won't.

"Yeah. Croatoan. It's efficient, it's incurable, and it's scary as hell. Turns people into monsters. Started hitting the major cities about two years ago. World really went in the crapper after that." I can hear the weight of all that must have happened to him as the virus took over the world. I can see it. He wears it all like skin.

"Sammy?" I ask so my Dean won't have to.

The Other goes still before telling us, "Heavyweight showdown in Detroit. From what I understand, Sam didn't make it." So cold. He's so cold as he speaks of the loss of our Sammy. I find that the pain is too big to cry over.

"You weren't with him?" Dean can't accept that. Neither can I.

"No, me and Sam, we haven't talked in, hell, five years," the Other tells him, knowing the guilt he's serving up and not caring at all.

"We never tried to find him?" I just can't wrap my head around this at all.

"We had other people to worry about," the Other snidely informs me.

He stomps over to me and opens the cuff fixed above my head. Grabbing my freed wrist roughly, he pulls me up from the floor and begins to lead me out of the room toward a door in the back.

My Dean is not pleased. "Where you going?" he demands while pulling against his own restraints.

"I've got to run an errand."

"Whoa. You're just gonna leave me here? Where is are you taking her?"

"She isn't staying in here with you. I'd be stupid to do that. I got a camp full of twitchy trauma survivors out there with an apocalypse hanging over their head. The last thing they need to see is a version of The Parent Trap starring either one of you. So, yeah, you stay locked down. Separately."

"Okay. All right. Fine. But you don't have to cuff me, man, or take her away. Oh, come on. You don't trust yourself?"

"No. Absolutely not," he throws back at Dean as we leave.

"Dick," is all we hear.

"Where am I in all this, Dean?" I ask as he moves us into a small storage room. He needs to tell me; I need to know. "What happened to me? Am I dead?"

"God, please don't ask, Jane."

"No, dammit. Where AM I?"

"Gone. No, shit, not dead," he clarifies in response to whatever he sees in my face. He attaches m cuffs to a handrail and continues. "You're, she, now-you is out on a mission. Since Bobby . . . since you and Bobby went back to Sioux Falls about a year and a half ago, and Bobby died, well, you came back. It was ugly, but you made it out. But you're different. So different."

"How? Please tell me. Please."

He bends his knees, squats on the floor beside me, looks just past my eyes.

"Bobby died. You almost died, Jay. And I wasn't there at the end for him. Wasn't there to help you. I stayed here and you went through all of that alone. You and me, we ended it. Or we tried to, anyway. We decided not to be tied to each other. I started sleeping around and you shut down. Completely. You barely talk anymore. Not to me, not to Cas or Chuck. You're gone more often than not, but when you're here..." He sighs, and drags his hand down over his face in one of the few familiar actions he shares with my Dean, and continues. "When you're here, we can't stay away from each other. I still love you. With everything left inside me, I love you. Her. There just isnt that much left in here."

He taps his chest and my heart aches. I am devastated by the broken man in front of me who doesn't even exist yet.


End file.
